Empty Night
by GlimmeringB52
Summary: Peggy Carpenter, Wizard, suddenly finds herself in a strange new world with no tolerance for magic. Rated M for language and later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Empty Night**

Chapter One

I heard footsteps behind me as I turned down my blow torch. I would have ignored the click of high-heels on the bare cement floor, except that they seemed to be heading toward me. The staccato noises were loud and rhythmic, as if the wearer loved the important feeling she got from tapping out her approach. Lifting my visor, I checked out the seam I had welded and only turned around when the footsteps halted directly behind me.

A slender woman with rich, dark hair and sparkling eyes behind a set of modern, square glasses held a clip board and stared at me. Her expression was expectant, as if we were carrying on a conversation and she was waiting for my reply.

"Yes?" I asked.

"Margaret Carpenter?" she asked.

"Peggy," I said.

She nodded. "I'm the gallery manager, Grace Qin. I'm just checking in with you and the other artists to make sure you have everything you need for tonight."

"I think I'm OK," I said. "Just making a few last-minute adjustments. This one doesn't even need to be moved when I'm done."

Grace nodded again and made a few notes on her clipboard, but otherwise gave no indication that she was satisfied.

"Am I forgetting to do something?" I asked. "I mean, this is my first show, so I'm sorry if something slipped through the cracks. I get a little forgetful when I'm this jittery; and since this is my fist show my nerves are stretched pretty thin." I laughed a little too high and loud. I sound like a jackass when I'm nervous. Not intentionally, but we all have our nervous ticks.

Grace took a deep breath and began slowly, "Well… I just have one concern about how we're setting up your sign." She took a slip of paper from her clipboard and handed it to me. "Could you read this over and make sure it's correct?"

I took the paper. It read:

_**PEGGY CARPENTER – WIZARD**_

Talismans and charms.

Protection. Feng Shui. Organic pest control. 

_**Reasonable Rates. No potions, curses, or parties.**_

"Yes, that's right," I said, realizing Ms. Qin's true intentions. You'd be surprised how many people ask me if I'm serious.

"Are you serious?" she asked. See?

"Yes, Ma'am," I said. She winced. She was too young to be called Ma'am, but she ignored the insult.

"So, you make... what, exactly?" she asked, looking over my small items table.

My small items table was full of charms to ward off colds, bad dreams, telemarketers, dogs, cats, rodents, mice, allergies, ex-boyfriends, debt-collectors, mold, burglars, arthritis, and any other number of unpleasant things. Talismans for attractiveness, eloquence, persuasiveness, confidence, flexibility, endurance, charm, wit, creativity, etc. They didn't actually give someone more of something they didn't already have-just gave them a boost to what they could accomplish on a very good day.

"Oh, you know, good luck charms, and peace of mind," I replied, knowing on a basic level that a long-winded explanation of what everything actually did wouldn't be listened to. I could see it in the set of her eyes and the way she hugged the clip-board to her chest, and I heard it in the way she clicked her heels against the cement floor. She was bored and felt like wasting some time making someone else feel inferior.

She glanced at the iron sculpture behind me, a model replica of St. Mary's Cathedral on Michigan Ave., complete with little stained-glass windows. The structure was far too large and heavy to transport all in one piece, so I had just finished welding the pieces back together.

Gesturing to it, she asked, "So what does that do?" I frowned. Although I had some large sculptures set up for display tonight, none of them did anything and I wasn't expecting to make any money off of them. I _was _hoping to sell some talismans and charms that night because even skeptics will buy some pretty little bracelet for their girlfriend/boyfriend, and about one in every 10 will believe, superstitiously, that they actually work. The hall was being used by me and three other artists, all of whom were painters and first-timers.

"Nothing," I said. "It doesn't actually do anything yet. I'm not expecting anyone to buy it tonight, so it'll be donated to St. Mary's after the show." I didn't try very hard to keep the irritation out of my voice

Ms. Qin blinked, seemed to consider saying something else, but cleared her throat instead. She glanced at her clipboard again and said, "Well I'm glad that's settled. Please be here at least an hour before the show begins, that's at 7:00 PM. Also, please remember that this show is formal attire."

I nodded, noticing how she glanced at my flip-flops and cargo pants.

She paused for a beat, waiting for me to say something, but when I remained silent she just turned and walked away, her heels clicking on the concrete floor.

My name is Margaret Angelica Dresden Carpenter. Call me Peggy. I'm a wizard, and I operate out of my father's garage in the suburbs of Chicago. I'm in the phone book, and I'm well-known among suburban moms that want to hide the stench of weed from their husbands and kids. Something about my incense burners just work better than anything else they've tried.

My customer base is small, and mostly accumulated by word-of-mouth and curious skeptics. I may not be the only openly practicing wizard in Chicago, but you'd think we were a bunch of tea party activists for all the credit people give practitioners. Our numbers did not give us credibility in main stream society.

About a decade ago, it really seemed like the supernatural community was going to finally be acknowledged by the human race at large. An entire race of Vampires had been wiped off the planet, the counts of unexplained deaths were skyrocketing, and practitioners had never been so well-connected and organized. My own sister, Molly, and "Uncle Harry" had been deeply involved in some pretty serious and dangerous magical warfare. They even made the news a few times. I was about eight at the time, so I don't know a lot about it. They never talk about it either, so I'll be in the dark until Harry and Molly's journals get passed down to me, I guess.

Anyway, things seemed to clear up after I turned thirteen. My father stopped worrying so much, my mother relaxed and started pestering Molly for grandchildren, and I started moving things across the room just by wishing it. It was just my luck that as soon as I started learning about magic, most of humanity started trying to forget about it.

People wanted to forget a world they couldn't explain and embrace the technology and science that would save the world. They wanted to focus on the non-magical calamities that plagued them: like the energy crisis, the debt crisis, the food crisis, the population crisis, the housing crisis, the unemployment crisis, and the climate crisis. It seemed like just about everything that could go wrong with civilization was snowballing into one huge side-show of bad news, and a good scape-goat seemed to be hippies and religious extremists.

In any case, humanity at large was once again embracing science and technology like it was the second coming of Christ, except with probably more fanfare and worldwide acceptance. This meant that practitioners like myself were whispered about in the back of PTA meetings, but certainly not given small business loans.

I always had my basic craftsmanship skills to fall back on. I worked with my foster father, Michael Carpenter, in (surprise, surprise) carpentry. Although I couldn't sell cabinets and dinettes that were scuff-proof, drip-proof, and guaranteed not to scratch your hardwood floors for slightly more money, I could still sell plain-old cabinets and dinettes that just seemed to last longer and look nicer than anyone else's. It doesn't pay nearly as well, I can't afford to move out of my parents' house, and I might go insane in a few years from boredom, but at least I don't have to worry about demons eating my face off. That's me. Always looking on the bright side of life.

I checked my St. Mary's model one more time, turned off my welding torch, and packed my gear into the rolling suitcase I had brought with me. It was just after one and I had time to go home, eat, walk my dog, and change before I had to drive back into the city for 7:00 PM. It was about an hour drive back home- which should tell you how bad traffic can get in a city of four-million people. I would have ridden my bike the four miles from the house to the gallery, but the gear I had to haul with me necessitated using my father's old and very battered pickup.

A beeping from my pocket distracted me as I walked to my old-as-sin car, and I accidentally wheeled my bag right off the curb and into a deep puddle while trying to dig my phone out of the velcro'd pockets of my cargo pants. Great.

"Hello?" I answered, hearing only static. "Hello?" I asked again, hoping the phone wouldn't give out on me. It would be number three this month.

"Peg!" It was Molly. "... are you?"

"I'm fine!" I shouted into the receiver. "What's up?"

"Did the setup go ...?" she asked, concerned.

"It went fine," I said. "It's just waiting now."

There was more static, punctuated by blips of Molly's voice. If I wanted to find out why Molly called before the phone gave out on me, I would have to hurry things up.

"...you... Harry today?" I heard Molly ask.

"What?" I asked, "What about Harry? Was I supposed to see him? No one told me." Heck, I hadn't seen "Uncle Harry" for well over a year. I use the air quotes because he's not really my uncle. He and my dad go way back, and he and Molly have always been close. I suppose he's part of the family, but he keeps his distance from everyone else. I have a brother named after him, and Michael always said I wouldn't be part of the family if it weren't for Uncle Harry. Hence, the Dresden in my name.

I unlocked my trunk and tried lifting my bag over the lip of the bumper one-handed.

"He may have mentioned something to me," she replied, coming in crystal clear, but so loud I had to yank the phone away from my ear.

"Well that doesn't do me much good," I said. "Would it kill you to give me a straight answer this time? I don't really have the – ah shit," the bag slipped and landed on my foot, "—Mols, this isn't really a good time."

"Are you still at the studio?" she asked. Realizing that my older sister and magical mentor was at her most difficult to deal with, I gave in.

"No, I'm just leaving," I said, sighing, "It's a formal show, and I have to stop by home to change."

I only heard silence on the other end. Molly was silent for so long that I had to check my phone to make sure it hadn't accidentally shorted it out. Eventually, she said, "Drive carefully, Peg. ...a car ... around six..." but she was drowned out by static before the phone powered down.

You may think that was a rather cryptic and odd conversation, but it was honestly pretty normal for Molly, who insisted on using the most modern pieces of technology she could get away with, no matter how exasperating it made my life. Even though she spent years as my mentor, helping me train and develop my magical ability, there was very little else to our relationship. She was a closed book, and asking her anything that wasn't strictly related to magic theory or practice either resulted in silence or some kind of argument that distracted me from my original question.

So I resigned myself to figuring out the rest of the phone conversation later, succeeded in getting my bag in the trunk with two hands, and drove home. The air was heavy with moisture from a recent thunderstorm, and the clouds blocking out the sunlight threatened the streets with another. The heat and humidity were fairly oppressive, but in late June it was to be expected. For the thousandth time, I wished that I was able to drive a newer car, with real working air conditioning.

Magic and technology don't exactly mix well. It's less like oil and vinegar and more like bear traps and soft, fleshy legs. When a wizard is around technology, Murphy's Law stops being a superstitious joke. Anything that can go wrong with a piece of technology usually will. It has to do with some kind of magical interference that wizards give off. There are some exceptions. If the technology is old enough, the magical interference has less of an effect, which is why my battered cell phone and ancient car could survive most interactions with me-although the cell phone was pushing it. The more powerful the wizard, the stronger the magical interference If I'm even in a room with a computer too long, then the poor machine is likely to blow out a battery, crash its hard drive, overheat its processor-one time a computer even caught fire. No joke.

I got home in a little under an hour because I will sometimes drive like a maniac when I don't want to be driving. I parked my car on the street and walked past the white picket fence. Michael's truck, Charity's ancient minivan, and Little Harry's car were all missing. No one was home. Mouse, my giant guardian dog, greeted me at the door, his nails clicking on the glass of the screen door and his tail wagging happily. Don't let the name fool you, Mouse is a beast. A love-able, cuddly, slobbery, gentle giant that used to give me pony rides when I was little. And despite sharing a mid-sized colonial in the suburbs of Chicago with four other humans, Mouse fit right in.

I showered, dressed in a dark blue dress with braided straps and a hem that literally touched the floor, and put on some white peep-toe heels that brought me to six-foot-two. I did the girly thing and made myself gorgeous, or as close as I could get. Enough makeup, applied in such a way that one might be mistaken as a lady of nightly pleasures can make even an average-looking girl like myself desirable when standing next to Honey Boo-Boo. I'm not saying I looked like a hooker, but "natural makeup" doesn't quite cut it when you're trying to sell a $400 welcome mat that wards off "Evil Spirits" (see: door-to-door salesmen and burglars). People think I'm ill when I don't wear any at all.

I used grey and pink shadow and dark eyeliner to make my dark eyes seem bigger. Normally, they're kinda squinty; puffy from lack of sleep and too much coffee. Rouge to my cheeks to add a deceptively healthy glow to my skin. I'm not super pale or anything, but I don't spend nearly enough time as I'd like out in the sun. I put up my dark hair in a simple clip, leaving two wavy tendrils to fall and frame my face. I liked this kind of style because it's casually elegant and has the added bonus of making my unremarkably round face seem a little longer, that it might not be overwhelmed by my somewhat-too-long nose and prominent chin. Did I just describe Taylor Swift? Maybe her slightly less attractive cousin she takes out so she can have someone to occupy the Wing Man. And that's with $200 of makeup at my full disposal.

And on top of the lovely cake that is my T&A-cuz, hey, my face may be a 6 on a good day, but my body is a solid 8 without even trying much- I added my magical bling. The stuff I don't sell. It's mostly there for self-defense because I never know when Molly is going to make an attempt on my life: a ring that stores a little kinetic energy every time I move my arm to deliver a hulk-punch upon release; one bracelet that absorbs light, acting as some effective camouflage, but also sending out a subtle psychic "look away"; another bracelet that serves as a shield bracelet; and a necklace that, when thrown, detonates like a flash-bang grenade.

This is what I do. I make magical toys (and tools, and weapons, and trinkets).

In fact, I had been training with Warden Luccio for the past three years in order to take over the crafting of the Warden's swords. Wardens are the police force of the White Council, and the White Council is basically the largely recognized government of the magical community. Luccio had suffered an unexpected body switch that severely impacted her ability to craft magical weapons, and when my talent was discovered, I began receiving private tutoring from Luccio in short order. I would start crafting the swords in a matter of weeks, which would provide me with steady, if limited, income.

At five thirty, a limousine pulled up in front of the house. I recalled the words "car" and "six" from the phone conversation and guessed that Molly was telling me about a pickup. Mouse seemed relaxed, so I didn't worry. As a temple dog, Mouse has some magical abilities of his own. One of those abilities is a preternatural sense of danger, and I had relied on his keen senses nearly my whole life.

I grabbed a clutch and checked my makeup in the mirror, gave Mouse a pat goodbye, and locked the front door behind me as I left. A slender, attractive man exited the car and walked around back to open the passenger door. He had shoulder-length hair-fine and platinum-blonde-, bright green eyes, and lean muscles that were clearly visible under a light-weight, green silk shirt. He smiled at me as I got in the car. I smelled ozone, and his tanned face was the last thing I saw as the world went black.

O.o

I woke up to sirens screaming. Pain shot through my skull with every wail. I was crawling forward on my hands and knees in a dimly-lit, grey room. I couldn't think. My arms, shaky and weak, gave out, and I curled in on myself and tried to breathe through the pain.

I have only been hung over once in my short life and I hope I never repeat the experience. My first boyfriend, Adam Polonsky, fed me Screwdrivers until I couldn't feel my lips or stand up straight. It was a night of valuable lessons because not only did I learn that I have no shame when I am drunk; I also learned that stupid boys will take advantage of that, and that buying Plan B in the morning while hung over is even more humiliating than the night that got you there.

That being said, I woke up and remembered Adam Polonsky as a fond memory of how pain used to feel.

Lights flickered, and the air around me hummed. I tried to open my eyes, but everything in sight swam and the lights burned. What had happened? Where was I? Empty Night, could I even remember my name?

I heard running footsteps. I raised my left arm and noticed that my bracelet was gone. My ring was gone, too. I looked down to find that my lovely blue summer dress was shredded at the knee and torn up the left side. My heels were gone, and my right ankle felt sprained. And I finally remembered that my name was Peggy Carpenter.

I heard voices and two men came into view, ducking under a large Plexiglas pipe filled with rushing fluid. They were holding toy guns. Were they guns? They looked like those toy space guns that shoot laser beams. I always wanted to play laser tag.

They were speaking to each other, but I couldn't wrap my brain around what they were saying. One of them pointed the gun at me and I reacted without thinking. I held out my left hand and croaked, "Hexus," sending a blast of unfocused Will in their direction because it was no fair that they should invite me to play laser tag but not give me a laser gun too. The little lights on the gun winked out, and the world went black again.

For a second, I thought I was unconscious again, but the pain very angrily reminded me that I did not have that much good luck. I tried to get up, but one of the men tackled me to the ground. He twisted my arm around my back and pressed me into the ground. I screamed.

"Don't move. Don't struggle. You are aboard a Starfleet vessel without clearance or identification. Who are you?" the man on top of me asked. I was hopelessly confused. My head was still swimming, and I was starting to think that this may not be a friendly, if somewhat unfair, game of laser tag.

"Wha?" I asked.

"Identify yourself," the man said. He twisted my arm a little tighter.

"Ahh! Peggy Carpenter!" I screamed, starting to get angry. "Get off me!"

"Captain," the other man said. "My comm unit is not functional. Communication with the rest of the ship has been terminated. Backup is most likely on its way, but I recommend that we subdue the intruder before any more damage to the ship is inflicted."

"Like hell!" I shrieked, and my head cleared enough for me to realize that I might actually be in some deep trouble.

Right about then, I really wished I had more than a passing interest in the self-defense classes Karryn Murphy had offered to give me. Because while I could defend myself against a would-be rapist, and goodness knows I know what I'm doing when I have my Force Ring and Notice-Me-Not Bracelet, I was really out of my depth if I was already pinned to the ground and missing my magical tools. I couldn't buck this guy off of me, and limited abilities to call up the kind of Will I would need for on-the-fly magic. It was time to improvise.

I went limp and focused all my energy on gathering my will.

I'm not particularly skilled at evocation, a type of magic that involved the quick summoning and focused release of Will that resulted in the more spectacular type of magic-fire and that sort of thing. Molly isn't either, so we never spent that much time on it. When she called in Uncle Harry to cover the basics with me, and he found out how abysmal I was at any kind of violent magic, he showed me how to use evocation in smaller ways. I could whip something up in emergencies, but it takes a lot of effort and a few seconds-which you don't normally have in the middle of a fight.

I focused on where the man's skin was touching my bare wrist and called forth heat. There seemed to be an abundant source of heat around me, though the air was not hot, and I drew greedily from it. I broke out in a sweat, my breathing became labored, my head felt like it was going to split open and a velociraptor was going to come crawling out.

The man howled and drew his hand back. Though he still had a knee planted in my lower back, he had let go of my twisted arm. I rolled, throwing him off balance. In complete darkness, I had no idea where to go, what direction I was facing and-in my current state of distress- I wasn't entirely confident that I was upright.

I jumped to my feet and nearly fell over due to a wave of dizziness. The man I had thrown off of me grabbed hold of my ankle and I felt another hand on my neck.

There was a violent burst of energy that tore through my mind. And the world went black again.

O.o

Life was no less painful the second time I woke from unconsciousness. If I ever suffered under the delusion that a little shut-eye might ease the pounding in my head, I was rudely reminded that my cosmic d20 was rolling ones.

"Empty Night," I cursed quietly. I tried to bring a hand to my head, but it only got an inch or so off the bed before the restraints around my wrists stopped it. I jerked my other wrist and my ankles. All restrained tightly. "Hell's Bells," I added for good measure.

I kept my eyes closed, not daring to test their sensitivity to the light I knew was shining in my face. I heard the soft rustling of cloth that marked someone's approach to the bed. Two seconds later, a high-pitched whirring sound accompanied the person. It was a soft sound, but it drilled into my temples.

"So yer awake are ya?" a voice said, belonging to the person next to me. The voice was male, with a southern accent.

"I'm gonna throw up," I gasped.

"Oh, shit," he said, sounding put-upon. He scrambled around, casting metal clangs and shuffled miscellaneous around until I felt a gentle hand turn my head to my right and cold metal touched my cheek. Like a trigger, my stomach convulsed and I retched into the receptacle. It didn't feel like a lot came up, and I wondered when I had eaten last.

When I stopped heaving, the southern man – he drawled too much to be Texan, so maybe Georgian? – pulled the cold, metal bowl away and I felt my hair fall back to my shoulders. He left, presumably to dispose of whatever had evacuated my stomach. I collapsed into the upraised back of the bed, exhausted.

Now that I could think, I realized that there were a few things that were seriously wrong with my situation. I had lost all of my magical tools, I could assume that several hours had passed since I left my house for the show, and I didn't know where I was or how I got there. Either I was unconscious for the entire time, or someone had done a very sloppy job at wiping my memory. I couldn't decide option would be preferable.

There was a chirping sound, and Georgia said, "Captain, the patient is awake." That would be me. Captain was the one I had burned. I must have been on a military base. It would explain the rankings.

"I'm coming down," was the terse reply, followed by another chirp. Georgia retuned to my side and the whirring resumed.

"Where am I?" I asked Georgia, the words tore at my throat and my mouth felt like sand paper.

"I'll let the Captain answer all yer questions," Georgia said. "In the meantime, you can answer mine. How are ya feelin'?"

"Pretty. Oh so pretty," I grouched. My voice sounded strange in my own ears. Raspy and whispery, as if I hadn't spoken in a long time.

"I'm a doctor," he growled angrily. "If you would open your eyes, you could see that."

"Can't," I said. "I'm afraid that if I do they'll boil out of my skull." It was only a slight hyperbole. The whirring got louder as whatever was making the noise got closer to my head. I winced. It stopped.

"Let me guess. You got a whopper of a migraine, am I right?" Georgia drawled. I nodded.

"All right, hold still," he said, and pressed something against my neck. Not expecting whatever it was he was trying to do, I flinched violently and screamed. I tried to raise my arms to defend myself, but only succeeded in giving myself rope burns on my wrists. Georgia swore and pushed a hand against my chest, pinning me to the bed. The pressure against my neck returned, I heard a hiss, my neck stung, there was a loud hiss-POP and the light in my face went out.

"Son of a-I said hold still!" Georgia shouted.

"What did you give me?" I screamed back. I could already feel the effects. I was slightly dizzy, but my head seemed to be clearing and the pain lessened. My heart pounded, but that was likely because I was scared about half to death. I slowly opened my eyes a fraction, squinting and blinking rapidly.

"Calm down, it was just a hypo injection," he said slowly, "to help with the headache." I didn't respond because I didn't know what a hypo was. In a few seconds, I was able to open my eyes all the way. The world was a little blurry, but it came into focus slowly. I looked around.

I was reclining in something that was similar to a hospital bed in a large room shaped like a curved trapezoid. Other beds, similar to the one I was strapped to, were on either side of me. In front of me, about ten feet away, I could see some kind of circular supplies station, attended by a woman in a cornflower blue uniform. Georgia was standing on my left side—also in a blue uniform—reaching into the front pocket of his scrubs and pulling out a device. He had dark hair and dark eyes, a strong, square jaw and a cynical set to his thin lips. His skin was pale, but weathered enough to tell that he spent most of his life enjoying the sunshine. He must have been thirty, thirty-five. He had deep frown lines that would remain etched between his eyebrows even when he relaxed, but the gentleness with which he had held my hair as I threw up belied his aggressive appearance. He met my eyes for a brief instant and looked down at the device in his hands. He frowned.

"What the…" he asked. He toggled a little switch a few times and shook the thing. He banged it with the heel of his hand. It wasn't working. I had to work at keeping the smirk off of my face. That's what you get when you startle the bejeezus out of a wizard. He looked behind me at the burned-out lamp and swore, then turned on his heel in the direction of the supply station.

While I was left alone, for the most part, I examined the bindings on my wrists. They were of some kind of strong fabric—nylon blend, maybe? They looped around my wrist and bolted to the railings on either side of the bed. But—BINGO—they were tightened by an electronic device that had malfunctioned when I was startled. I twisted my wrists back and forth, trying to loosen the bindings enough that I could slip my hands out quickly if I needed to. I wiggled my feet around. It wasn't like I could escape with Georgia right there and The Captain on his way, but I would have the element of surprise if I needed it.

Georgia returned, accompanied by another man in a gold and black uniform and a third man in a blue and black uniform. Goldie had wavy brown-blond hair, bright blue eyes, and muscles that were clearly visible under his shirt and pants. I could tell he was the Captain by the way he carried himself. Shoulders back, a relaxed and confident swing to his arms. His full, pouty lips and firm jaw were framed by a short beard that added a distinguished quality to his boyish good looks. I suspect he would look much younger if he shaved. He was a man used to giving orders and taking control, even if he had no clue what was going on.

Blue had jet black hair cut in a severe style, and eyebrows that gradually of crawled up his forehead. He had soft brown eyes, high cheekbones, and a graceful jawline; but his features were devoid of emotion, almost serene. I'm usually pretty good at reading people, but this guy was a blank slate. His clean-shaven face was unreadable, wiped clean of any of the small telling twitches that at least indicate a person's frame of mind. No tension in the brow or jaw, no creases around the eyes, no quirk to the lips, no tilt to the head. The only animated feature on his face was his eyes, which flicked around the room quickly, assessed Georgia, and observed me where I lay. He met my eyes, but I broke the contact when I felt the beginning tingles of a soul gaze.

Georgia, Goldie, and Blue approached my bed; Georgia and Goldie on my left, and Blue on my right. As I caught my first glimpse of Blue's profile, I noticed that he had—I kid you not—_pointed_ ears. I tried not to look surprised because, obviously, these other guys weren't. Goldie cleared his throat, and I returned my attention to him.

"Miss Carpenter. My name is James Tiberius Kirk. I'm the Captain of this starship, the USS Enterprise. With me are," he gestured to Blue, "First Officer and Chief Science Officer Spock, and," gesturing to Georgia, "Chief Medical Officer, Doctor Leonard McCoy. Do you know why you are restrained?"

"I believe I was defending myself, though my recollection of events is somewhat hazy," I hedged. The man did just say starship, which was either code for something or… crazy.

"That's perfectly understandable," Kirk said agreeably. "You were in pretty rough shape when we found you in the engine room. I would probably have reacted the same way." He paused. "But that isn't why we've restrained you." I remained silent. It would prompt Kirk to elaborate since he hadn't followed up with a direct question.

"The reason you are restrained, Miss Carpenter, is because you were not aboard this vessel three hours ago, but since we have not seen a single ship in three weeks there is no possible way for you to have boarded. You somehow gave me second-degree burns and caused a massive engine failure that nearly resulted in the death of almost four hundred people. Finally, you are not recognized as a citizen of the United Federation of Planets or Earth. There is no record of an identity that matches your DNA," Kirk said. His voice remained calm and modulated, but deepened as he moved his face close to mine. "So tell me, Miss Carpenter. Who are you, and where do you come from?"

It was all very dramatic. I tried and failed to resist the urge to cut the tension.

"Well you see, Mr. Kirk, when a man and a woman love each other very much, there comes a time in their relationship where they want to express that—"

Kirk reared back and shouted, "I don't think you understand exactly how much trouble you're in. You need to start telling the truth, or there will be consequences."

"You can't handle the truth!" I shot back, trying to sit up, but only managing a weak flop of my shoulders. Doctor McCoy snorted, earning a death glare from the Captain. Sure, I was being a little difficult, but I wasn't wrong. People don't react well to their worldviews being shattered. And I didn't want to end up sedated and wrapped in a strait jacket because I was among some magical unfriendlies. It was best to let them come to their own conclusions about what happened and go with that.

"McCoy, Spock, with me," he clipped, glancing at each in turn and walking away a few paces. McCoy and Spock followed. They huddled together and looked like they were going to have a hushed conversation about me out of earshot, so I closed my eyes and concentrated on listening. Uncle Harry had taught me this trick in the third and last magic lesson we ever had-when he showed me how to make a Force Ring. He said that the most important information I would ever learn was probably going to be kept from me, so I'd best learn how to go about finding it for myself. You'd be surprised at what you can hear with a little practice.

"Seriously, Bones?" Kirk complained, his tone changing to a casual, informal cadence.

"Sorry, Jim, but it's not every day someone quotes _A Few Good Men_," McCoy replied, not at all apologetic.

"Whatever. What did you find out?" Kirk asked.

"She's human," McCoy said.

"And do you know this because of her knowledge of 20th century pop culture?" Kirk asked, frustrated.

"Dammit, Jim! I'm a Doctor, not an anthropologist!" McCoy griped. "Her readings are all human, what little I could get through all of my equipment going haywire. I'm not even sure we can trust what I got. Twenty-three year-old female, about 1.8 meters, Hispanic and mixed decent, broke some bones when she was probably eight or so."

A pause.

"Anything else?" Kirk asked impatiently.

"That's all I got, Jim. My tricorder shorted out before I could get anything else."

"And what were you able to come up with, Spock?" Kirk asked.

"My efforts have yielded equally unenlightening results," Spock said. He had a soft, tenor voice and spoke with clipped and unaccented vowels. "I have found no traces of energizing beams, no temporal anomalies, and no evidence of an unknown transport ship. If I didn't know better, I'd say that Miss Carpenter has been aboard the ship since we last docked at _Lya Station Alpha_."

"But that's impossible because the ship detected an intruder only an hour ago," Kirk said speculatively.

"I would not say she materialized, Captain, as there is no physical evidence of such an event occurring. It would be more accurate to say that one moment she was not here, and then the next moment she was," Spock countered.

"Sorry, Spock, but I don't see how that explanation is more accurate," Kirk said.

"While we still do not have a suitable explanation of events, I would say that my statement is all we are able to conclude with our knowledge of what may or may not have happened," Spock countered.

"Fine. What were you able to pull from security?" Kirk asked.

"The security recordings malfunctioned as soon as the ship detected an intruder. There is no recorded evidence of Miss Carpenter's arrival on this ship," Spock said calmly. I chanced a quick peek. Kirk seemed to be growing more frustrated and grim by the second, and McCoy was equally tense. Spock looked like he was contemplating what he would have for lunch. I shut my eyes again before they noticed I was eavesdropping. "However there are instances across the ship of other surveillance equipment malfunctioning. It is unclear at this time whether these malfunctions are in any way related to Miss Carpenter."

"Okay, keep me posted, Spock. But, it looks like our only option right now is to get the story out of our guest here," Kirk concluded. And now I knew this man had no experience whatsoever with anything magical because you don't bandy the word 'Guest' around unless you really mean it.

"I would advise extreme caution, Captain," Spock said. "While Miss Carpenter may be human, the forces that manipulated this situation may be dangerous and beyond our current understanding."

"Duly noted, Spock," Kirk said. "Bones, watch her vitals for any signs of lying while we question her. I'm sure she knows what's going on."

"Would love to, Jim, but my tricorder isn't the only thing that isn't working. Just about everything shorted out when I tried to give her a hypo. The bed's monitors are all out of whack, and even the bed lamp blew out."

"Son of a ..." Kirk trailed off with a sigh. "Well, I guess we'll have to rely on your talents, Spock. Would you be able to tell if she were lying?" Kirk asked.

"Affirmative," said Spock, "although I would require her consent to perform a mind-meld."

"Good," Kirk said. "Let's go."

I opened my eyes and saw the three men approaching me again, this time Spock approached on the left, while Kirk and McCoy stopped at the foot of my bed. Kirk crossed his arms and looked at me seriously.

"Miss Carpenter, I'm going to ask you a few questions, and I'd like you to answer them truthfully. Mr. Spock will be assisting me and will tell me if you are lying," Kirk informed me. I wasn't sure how the pointy-eared stranger was going to pull this off, unless he was a practitioner with some talent in his own right. Could he be a changeling? It would account for his strange appearance, as the children of fey and humans often had distinguishing characteristics. I looked doubtfully up at him and settled on the space right between his strangely-angled eyebrows.

"Miss Carpenter, do you give your consent to a mind-meld?" Spock asked.

"What's that?" I asked, although I was pretty sure.

"A mind-meld is a telepathic link, forged by a Vulcan, which joins two or more minds together. The purpose of which is to facilitate the open and uninhibited sharing of information, impressions, thought, and emotions." Spock's answer sounded like it came from a text book, and I had a suspicion it actually had. "Captain Kirk wishes me to form a shallow link for the sole purpose of detecting discrepancies between your thoughts and your words. It is imperative that we assess the danger you—or the forces that brought you here—pose to our ship and crew. I ask that you allow me to perform a mind-meld, so that I may confirm the truthfulness of your statements to Captain Kirk."

It was exactly what I thought it was, but I didn't seem to have much of a choice, so I nodded. Besides, I could hold my own.

"Please do not be alarmed," he said, as if he were actually wary of an emotional outburst, "This will not hurt." He placed his right hand on the left side of my face, carefully aligning his fingers to three points: his thumb on my chin, his forefinger just under my eye, and his remaining fingers resting against my temple. I immediately felt a jolt run through my body, ending with a tingling in my fingertips, somewhat similar to the jolt I would get if I shook hands with another powerful wizard. My eyes widened in surprise and then closed as if on their own accord. I felt weightless, and warm, and relaxed. For a few seconds I forgot who and where I was, but a gentle pressure in the back of my mind roused me from my momentary state of bliss.

He was in my mind. I could feel his presence, but he made no effort to dig into my memories or thoughts.

It was a strange feeling. Like when a guest shows up and knocks on the side door that opens into a room you didn't clean because you never intended them to see it; like when a customer enters the shop from the back door marked 'Employees Only'.

All practitioners powerful enough to earn the title of Wizard have some skill in mind magic, though the White Council has blanketed all mind magic as Black Magic. Many Wizards know how to defend themselves against psychic attacks (from a weak and unskilled wizard), and very few (my mentor Molly among them) has skill for much else. Factors determining a Wizard's strength in mind magic are much the same as every other skill: natural ability, belief in its use, and how much the Wizard develops the skill.

While I may be abysmal at evocation-I have little natural talent for it, and I'm not really a violet person, nor do I believe it is in me to use force for anything but self-defense-Molly made sure that I developed what little skill I had to give myself a better chance of survival. Not that I go around battling for my life every day (well, beyond the hour or so that Molly is trying to kill me. She hasn't succeeded yet, but I don't think she's really trying very hard).

I'm much better at telepathy than evocation, but still not as good as enchanting magical tools. Molly dances circles around my brain. She's empathic as well, and can sense the emotions of people in the room. She can enter my mind and read my thoughts without me realizing it. I'm an elephant by comparison... but other wizards are dinosaurs compared to me.

The way I saw it, I had a couple of options available to me. I could attack Spock's mental presence and push him from my mind, but since he had made no attempts to go where he wasn't wanted I was hesitant to immediately go on the offensive. I could go the opposite route and remain quiet within my own head, leading him to believe I was just another human. Or I could take some middle ground and politely ask him to back off. If he had some skill in mind magic, I might be safer in revealing myself to these people than I had first guessed-despite their blatant ignorance of the laws of hospitality.

_I'd like to set some ground rules while you're here,_ I thought.

I didn't have to wait long for a response. It was hesitant and came with a ripple of surprise.

_Fascinating. You clearly possess telepathic abilities, yet you are human. To my knowledge, humans are largely believed to be a psi-null species. How is this possible?_ Spock asked.

_Just lucky, I guess,_ I thought, hoping to deflect his questions. While he didn't seem to have aggressive motives, I couldn't trust him yet, or the two other men intent on questioning me. _Ground rules: one, you're not going where you're not wanted. Believe me, I can keep you out. Two, this mind-meld is over when I say it's over. Three: we soul gaze before the questioning starts because I need to know if I can trust you before I let you stay in here one second longer. _

I held my breath. Molly would almost certainly have had this stranger clawing at his eyes in agony for daring to invade her mind, even in the shallowest of contact. But I wasn't Molly, who tended to have a vicious streak that always made me a bit uncomfortable. I wanted to trust this man, strange as he may be, but I needed more to go on.

_Please define a soul gaze, _Spock thought.

_A soul gaze is a phenomenon that occurs when a person such as myself meets eyes with another person. Both parties gain insight into the nature of the other person and have intimate knowledge of that person's trustworthiness, motives, values, desires, fears, sometimes even secrets. The experience is subjective and unique to each individual. _

Spock remained quiet, possibly considering his options. I continued, _I'm not going to lie; it's pretty intimate, although usually both parties benefit from the knowledge in the end._

_I can find no fault with your logic,_ Spock said. _Please, proceed. _

I steeled my resolve, opened my eyes, and turned my face to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark. A warm chocolate brown that seemed at odds with his emotionless face. It took a second (soul gazes usually do), but I felt the gaze take hold and was powerless to stop it.

Everyone experiences a soul gaze differently. Harry once told me that his gazes played out as scenes in a movie, with representations of people and places projected so clearly in his mind they were almost real. Molly described her soul gaze experience as trending toward mainly emotional impressions with occasional accompanying images.

I've only ever soul-gazed one other person, so I don't really have much experience. The first time was like a dream. I saw strange things and immediately knew their meaning. Nothing was vague to me, although if I described it to another person, it would probably seem hopelessly cryptic.

When I looked into Spock's eyes, I saw a man who was not fully human. He was a creature of two worlds, belonging to neither. He was a scholar, a man of intellect, and ultimately a pacifist, but would fight with military precision and the ferocity of a warrior to protect those he cared for. Behind his emotionless face he hid a river of passion that ran deep... so deep. He hid the pain of a loss so great it took his breath away in the dead of night when he was alone and left him confused and angry. He also hid a joy so fierce it nearly choked him every time he brought his crew and captain back from a mission safely. Everything he did was in the name of discovery, of exploration, of knowledge, of understanding the universe. He had killed once before, and it scared him. Scared him so much that he tried ever harder to control that great river of emotion so that he could catch that cold rage masquerading as logic before it got that far again. Spock's mind was a cold and beautiful place; a glacier: huge and unstoppable, with a powerful control over the wilder underbelly of his nature.

He thought I was a curious anomaly. He was interested, eager even, to find out where I had come from, solve the puzzle that I presented, determine the logic behind a series of seemingly illogical events. He would not hesitate to take me out the moment I presented an insurmountable danger to his ship and captain.

The gaze ended and I was once again looking at Spock's warm, brown eyes. Blinking the hazy images away, I felt tears track down my cheeks. I took a deep breath and released it slowly, breaking eye-contact and looking over to Captain Kirk and Doctor McCoy.

"We're ready," I said.

**AN:** Well, it's been a while. I guess I was destined to come back eventually. Maybe I'll actually finish this story. It's a crossover, and I don't think many people read crossovers, but we'll see. This work has not been reviewed by a Beta. I tried my best to carefully comb through for errors, but I may have missed some.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Star Trek or the Dresden Files series.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: **If you are coming back to this story, please re-read chapter 1. I have added and changed quite a bit, and given Peggy more of a voice. It changes the chapter significantly. Also, no, you aren't crazy. I did change the name of the story.

**Empty Night**

Chapter Two 

Captain Kirk looked suspicious, his head tilted to one side and his lips thinned. His eyes darted between me and Spock until Spock said, in a perfectly calm voice-like he hadn't just seen my soul laid bare, "All is well, Captain. You may proceed." He could have been commenting on the weather. What nice meteor showers we're having today.

"Alright," Kirk said. "Let's start with basics. What is your name?"

"My name is Margaret Carpenter. My friends call me Peggy," I replied. Kirk looked at Spock, who must have indicated in some way that I was telling the truth because Kirk looked satisfied.

"Please lie to me, Peggy. Something everyone here would be able to recognize as a lie," Kirk said.

"Um... okay. Dr. McCoy is a horse," I said, the right side of my face pulling into a silly grin. Honestly, they didn't need Spock for this. I'm a terrible liar. I have more ticks than a Cuckoo clock.

"And now a lie that no one here would know better about, please," Kirk said. I cast about for the space of three heart-beats, trying to think of something. I didn't want to inadvertently give away too much personal information, but I did want to test out the subtleties of Spock's ability to tell if I was lying. Seconds ticked by and Kirk re-adjusted his crossed arms.

"I, uh, played guitar?" I said, wincing. "for Paul McCartney."

Kirk opened his mouth, but Spock unexpectedly preempted whatever the Captain was going to say with, "I detect that the first part of that statement was a lie, but that there was some truth to the second part of the statement." Thus, proving that Spock's abilities were much more nuanced than I had first guessed.

This was, apparently, not what either Dr. McCoy or Captain Kirk expected to hear because Dr. McCoy whapped Kirk on the shoulder and eyed me warily. It was a cross between is-this-person-crazy? and am-I-crazy?

Looking confused, Kirk asked, "Who?"

I giggled nervously. "You know... from the Beatles?" Now Kirk was also wearing the same peculiar expression as Dr. McCoy, except Kirk's was tinged with a healthy dose of this-sounds-like-a-dangerous-situation. Dr. McCoy's eyebrows were slowly drawing together in a fierce scowl, which changed his whole demeanor.

"Ok, well I didn't really ever meet him, per se, I just gave him his coffee because he came into the Starbucks I was working in and I took his order, but because my friend Rebecca was too star-struck, I got his coffee too, and he didn't even really speak to me, except to say that he wanted extra foam, and then I was fired from my job anyway a week later because I kept breaking the coffee machines." Stars and stones, word vomit is the worst of my nervous tics. "You probably didn't need to know that."

"Paul McCartney of the Beatles died in 2019," Dr. McCoy said.

"Yeah, my dad was super bummed about it," I said. "This was a few years before that. I was only sixteen at the time."

In the silence that followed, I found myself looking at the nylon strap that bound my right wrist to the bed. Spock's fingers still pressed against my temple, following my head as I turned my face aside. I could tell this little Q&A wasn't going too well, and we weren't even past the control questions. A little hysterical giggle burbled forth again.

Dots were connecting in my head that were forming a very strange and impossible picture. I didn't want to believe it; not because I have trouble believing in seemingly impossible things (you don't apprentice to one of the most notorious reformed warlocks in the White Council and not come out the other side without a few mental scars-not to mention, Chichen Itza, but that's another story), but because if it were true it would mean I was about to get very angry. And you wouldn't like me when I'm angry.

"What's your birthday?" Kirk asked after a solid minute of silence.

"November 23, 2003," I said, unable to hide the quaver in my voice. Kirk ran a hand over his face and McCoy threw his hands in the air and stalked away from the bed.

_Please remain calm, _Spock thought in my mind. He pulled my attention inward and showed me memories of a shadowed room, filled with the flickering light of a fire. The deep tones of a string instrument resonated through the air. It was basically the mental equivalent of slapping hands over my eyes and ears. I felt my eyes go out of focus and was immediately suffused with annoyance that more or less replaced the rising hysteria.

_Stars and stones, what is going on? _I demanded.

_I sensed your rising emotional distress and concluded that the information you will learn shortly will contribute to it. I deemed it 75% likely that Dr. McCoy would resort to sedation to calm you if I did not take preemptive measures, _Spock thought.

_What's going on? _I pressed, resisting the calming effects of the mental room. _None of this makes any sense-_

_Miss Carpenter, please calm yourself -_

I'm tied down, dressed in the rags of my favorite dress,-

The lights of sickbay are flickering in time with your emotional distress-

tired, sick, and I am just about done with strangers-

and I don't believe I need to tell you how-

demanding questions of me and flipping out-

disastrous a failure of medical equipment could be.

like I've done something wrong when I answer them!  
  
We were 'shouting' over each other, and I wasn't really listening to him until a jolt of tingling sensation tore through my brain and burned its way down my body, ending at my fingers and toes. It was disruptive enough that my thoughts actually scattered for a full five seconds.

_Miss Carpenter, calm down or the other patients in sickbay will be at risk,_ Spock insisted. I shut up. I could feel myself breathing in short gasps.

_Focus on the fire. The light is flickering. Listen to the music. The sound is deep. _

I tried to do as Spock said, guilt replacing anger as quickly as anger had replaced rising panic. I had forgotten I was in a medical facility, or hadn't realized, or hadn't cared. I'm a danger to most technology on a good day, but strong emotions amplify the sphere of magical interference. I haven't been to a hospital since I was thirteen. Not when my nieces and nephews were born, not when my father had a stroke. I couldn't risk accidentally shutting down someone's life support.

I focused my attention to the visual and auditory projections Spock was mentally sending my way. They were, thankfully, very similar to my usual meditative tricks: that of a forge and a rhythmic striking of a hammer to molten steel.

I had trained for three years with Warden Luccio to take over production of the Warden's swords. Much of that time was spent training myself to enter a trance-like state in which I could suppress the dangerous elements of emotion, so that only the fire and my Will would shape the blade. Emotions are powerful tools to use when casting a spell. Evocation works well when fueled by strong emotion; even many of my own talismans come out best when I am feeling some sort of emotion while crafting-love, protectiveness, jealousy, anger, sadness, fear. You can catch sunlight in a white cloth, but only when you are truly happy. Warden swords are different. Wardens use these swords to execute rogue Wizards, called Warlocks, and they need to be able to cut through defensive magic spells. These swords cast judgment. There can be no emotional interference.

It didn't take me long to come close to my sword-crafting, trance-like state once I put my mind to it (ba-dum-bum-cha). Since I wasn't going to be hammering any steel in the next few minutes, keeping up the rhythm of my mantra, I would likely slip out of it pretty quickly, but at least I wasn't leaking magical interference all over the technology surrounding me. Since Spock was monitoring my 'emotional distress' he was aware of when I finished.

_Well done, Miss Carpenter, _he thought_. I have never known a human to so effectively control an emotional response. _

_What did you do to shock me? _I asked.

_It is a common technique used by Vulcans among young children who are first learning to establish emotional contro_l, _called _irak-nahan svi-shaya, Spock thought.

I very nearly sent a barrage of questions and frustration at Spock, but considered for a brief moment that there might be a better way to go about getting answers.

_Thank you, Spock, for your assistance. It won't be necessary any longer, _I said, and pushed him out.

Immediately, my vision returned to the real world and I heard a quiet gasp from Spock. I could faintly sense the pressure of his mind trying to gain re-entry, but he removed his fingers from my face when he was not successful. Captain Kirk and Dr. McCoy were once again at the foot of my bed, apparently finished with their little flip-out.

"Mr. Spock, we aren't finished," Kirk said.

"I apologize, Captain, but Miss Carpenter has limited my access to her thoughts," Spock said.

"Actually, we are finished," I countered, cutting off Kirk's alarmed exclamations. "For now," I added, when Kirk's look turned from concerned to outraged.

"And I'll tell you why," I continued. "I refuse to answer any more questions while tied to a bed like a living sacrifice. I'm half-naked, tired, hungry, thirsty, and missing several hours of time, if not more. I'll answer your questions, but I want to be fully clothed, sitting in a chair with a table between us, unrestrained, and I want a lawyer present."

"You're not really in a position to be making demands, Miss Carpenter," Kirk said dangerously.

"Am I under arrest?" I shot back.

"You are being detained for assault on a Starfleet officer and for stowing away on a Starfleet vessel," Kirk said.

"Then can I leave?" I asked, gambling that detention laws were still the same here as back home.

"What? No," Kirk snapped.

"You can't detain me against my will, Captain, so if I'm not allowed to leave, then you have to charge me with something and arrest me," I said.

"As a commanding officer of this vessel, I am authorized to use any means necessary to secure the safety of Starfleet personnel against any individual that may pose a threat," Kirk said. "And you are a threat, Miss Carpenter."

"You've elevated me to a terrorist threat, now?" I asked, irritation creeping back into my voice. My hold over my emotions was slipping now that I had no way of maintaining my meditative tricks.

"My hands were covered in second-degree burns after holding your arms for less than ten seconds!" he said.

"That's probably the worst pickup line I've ever heard," I drawled, but no one in the room appreciated my wit. "What did I burn you with? You didn't find any weapons on me. What was it? Magic?" My heart pounded and my voice cracked. Thank the stars that Spock was no longer in my head because he would call my bluff easily.

"Do you know how insane this sounds?" I continued. "How could an unarmed, 23-year-old, human girl possibly pose a threat to anyone here? If you'd only wait for someone to take a look at the engine, you'll find a perfectly reasonable explanation for why it failed. Not only that, but did I look like I was capable of sabotaging a game of solitaire, much less an engine?"

"Regardless, how do you explain your presence on this ship, your lack of citizenship, and your intimate knowledge of twentieth-century Earth?" Kirk asked, and waited. I didn't have an answer for him, and I was at my limit of control.

"Until you can," he continued, "you will be held under suspicion of terrorist activities which means you have no rights as a citizen of Earth or the United Federation of Planets."

"So you're just going to keep me tied to this bed?" I asked, turning on a 'helpless woman' vibe and hoping it appealed to a sense of chivalry. "Is some food, clothes, and rest really too much to ask?" It was my turn to wait as Kirk seemed to have an internal struggle.

"Mr. Spock," Kirk finally said, "please take a security escort and bring Miss Carpenter to the brig. Make sure she receives food and adequate clothing. Report to me in briefing room one when you're finished."

"Aye, Captain," Spock said, and Kirk turned on his heel to walk across sickbay and exit the sliding doors.

I sighed and slumped into the raised back of the bed. Tension drained out of me for all of two seconds before Spock turned to a speaker device on the wall and flipped a switch.

"Commander Spock to security. Please send a two-man escort to sickbay, along with clothing for a female human, 1.8034 meters tall, 72.5748 kilograms," he said into the speaker. The speaker chirped a man's acknowledgement, followed by a high-pitched whine of feedback, and Spock returned to my bedside. Looking at Dr. McCoy, who had remained thunderously observant during my exchange with Captain Kirk, Spock asked, "Is Miss Carpenter medically cleared to leave sickbay?"

McCoy huffed and said, "Give me ten minutes to find out. All my instruments are broken, so we're doing this the old-fashioned way." He walked away and disappeared through a door on the opposite end of sickbay.

There wasn't much to do in the minutes that followed. I closed my eyes and let my head fall back, but was reluctant to let my guard down while Spock was still standing guard over me. I opened my eyes and met his, which had been studying me.

_Spock, _I thought, and his eyes widened almost imperceptibly. He didn't respond, but tilted his head to the side. He stepped closer and was about to place his hand on my face in the same pattern as before when Dr. McCoy returned with a black leather bag. Spock stepped away and clasped his hands behind his back.

Grumbling to himself, Dr. McCoy withdrew a stethoscope from the bag, along with a plastic case that held a needle and syringe, a tourniquet, iodine, and cotton swabs. He also withdrew a blood-pressure cuff, a rubber hammer, a small flash-light, several long cotton swabs, specimen tubes, and purple non-latex gloves. He pulled the gloves on his hands and arranged the equipment from the bag on a metal tray that stood next to the bed.

"Are you going to buy me a drink first?" I asked wryly

Dr. McCoy chuckled, his the left corner of his mouth pulling up in a grin. "Darlin', you got some sass," he said. "Open up."

What followed was a pretty standard physical, as much as he could do while I was strapped to the bed. He poked and prodded me, asked me to let him know if anything hurt, swabbed my cheek, and drew some blood. I flinched away from the needle, but Dr. McCoy threatened to have Spock hold me down if I didn't let him draw blood.

It's not that I'm afraid of needles; it's just that you can do some very nasty things to a person if you have some of their blood. It's just generally a good idea to not let it leave your body-and if it does, keep close tabs on it.

Finally, he declared, "Alright, Spock, she's good to go. Just don't let her strain herself. Her blood pressure is a little low. I still have to run tests on her blood samples so let security know I'll be stopping by later for a follow-up."

"A second date, Doctor? You're too good to me," I drawled, imitating his southern accent.

Spock nodded and beckoned to the two men in red shirts standing at attention at the foot of my bed. They had arrived during the physical. One man was short and Latino. He was well-muscled, lean, and tanned a golden brown. His black, shiny hair was styled into spiky points and black tribal tattoos framed his left eyebrow. He had smiled at me, flashing his white teeth, when he arrived. Guard number two had a huge nose, brown hair, and a dark goatee that stood out starkly against his very pale face. He was much taller than Guard number one and his prominent adams apple bobbed every time he swallowed.

As Dr. McCoy packed up his "old fashioned" equipment the guards approached with a stack of cloth I hoped was my change of clothes and some super fancy space handcuffs. Slowly, so I wouldn't startle anyone, I pulled my hands and feet out of the bed restraints and sat up. Spock's eyebrow rose because he knew that no one had flipped the switch that would release the straps securing me to the bed, but the red shirts didn't know that. Guard number one handed me the stack of clothes and lead me to a small bathroom I could use to change.

I quickly tossed the sad remains of my favorite summer dress on the floor and pulled on a rather ugly grey pair of pants and a shirt. The pants were too short and showed about two inches of ankle. The grey shirt was similarly too short for my long arms, and the shoulders were too tight, though the body and sleeves billowed around me. I slipped on a pair of black cloth loafers that were too big and rubbed against my heel as I walked.

I took advantage of my temporary privacy to use the toilet, splash some water on my face, and gulp down a few hand-fulls of water. There was a mirror above the small sink and a glance at my reflection had me wincing. I had dark purple bruises on the left side of my face. Someone had sucker-punched me on the nose and my eyes were raccoon'd. The remains of dried blood still clung to my upper lip, despite the rinse. I had a scab on my lower lip, and yellowing bruises on my neck.

I quickly shut the gibbering, angry rage that bubbled up upon seeing my abused features, behind a mental door and left the bathroom. Guard number one hand-cuffed my hands behind my back. Guard number two lead the way out of the medical facility, with Guard number one following me and Spock bringing up the rear.

The sliding doors to the medical facility gave a nasty squeal as they tried to open for us-they didn't quite make it. Dazed, tired, and wishing I could just curl up and disappear, I was led on a short walk down a blindingly white and brightly-lit corridor. We passed many other closed sliding doors, labeled with numbers prefixed with a "G-".

Along the way, we passed humans and several beings that were unlike any human or fey I had ever encountered. Judging by blue or green skin tones, strange ridges on noses and foreheads, huge eyes, and/or extra appendages, I guessed that these beings were probably not found on earth. Unless there was some kind of nuclear disaster while I-

I cut myself off before I had the chance to think things that would bust my flimsy mental door down.

Everyone we passed stepped aside and saluted Spock. Many were dressed in the red, blue, or gold uniforms I had seen before, but others were wearing varying styles of civilian clothing. We passed by so quickly that they had little chance to do more than glance at me, but I could see their eyes (when they had eyes) sweep over my face, bound hands, and escort.

The march ended in a large white room with shiny black flooring and black accents. Two control stations, sleek and curved, with red chairs, faced the opposite wall. Directly across from the entrance was a recessed chamber that was brightly lit by fluorescent lights. The large archway opened to a sparse, pod-like room with two benches on the right and left sides. The guards led me past this pod-room and down a corridor to the left, which had eight black doors evenly spaced on either side.

These doors seemed to be large, heavy, and of a more simple mechanical design. They did not slide open as we approached. Guard number two unlocked the door with a simple four-digit passcode, and then hauled on the door handle to slide the heavy slab open. Guard number one un-cuffed my hands and I was thrust into a very small room with a bench barely long enough lay down on, four walls, a ceiling, and a floor. The door closed behind me with a clang and the chunk-chunk of heavy deadbolt locks sliding into place. Spock may have said something about returning with more information, but I was too dazed and tired to remember. I was barely keeping it together.

_Focus_, I told myself. _Task number one: figure out a way to avoid a major technical malfunction before you kill life-support or something. Then you can freak out all you want. _

Right. Ok. I needed to create a magic circle around me. The nice thing about magic circles is that they're pretty easy to construct, take very little effort, and are extremely effective at keeping magic in... or out. You can use them in all sorts of ways: trapping small faeries; summoning demons and stronger fey creature; blocking out ambient magic when gathering power to cast a spell; and even protecting against a redcap out for my blood. That last one is another one of Molly's homicide attempts, but that's another story.

If I were to surround myself in a magic circle, I could be confident that my magic would be confined to the boundaries of that circle. Once released, it would dissipate, and probably not cause the oxygen tanks to spontaneously combust. I hoped. In any case, better to play it safe.

Looking around the small cell, it at first seemed like there was nothing but the bench, air, and myself within the four walls. When I sat on the bench, I happened to curl my fingers around the lip and felt a latch that popped open a section of bench next to me. Lifting the lid, I found myself looking at what could only be the latrine, complete with a little toilet tissue dispenser built into the underside of the lid. I closed the compartment and decided to explore.

There were two other hidden compartments that made up the remainder of the bench. One held pillows and blankets, which I pulled out and threw on the floor for use later. The other had what looked like a few MREs, a bottle of water, and a change of clothes. Unless I wanted to break open an MRE and spread barely edible food around like some kind of savage, I had very little material to work with for creating a circle.

I took off a shoe and examined the sole. If I had any luck, they would be made of cheap rubber that would leave marks. I dug a fingernail into the spongy, black underside. It seemed promising. I put the heel of the shoe, the thickest part of the sole, to the bench and dragged it for six inches. It got a little streak of black near the end. A wave of relief so strong it was pathetic crashed over me and I nearly burst into tears. At least one thing was going the way I wanted.

I spent about half an hour dragging my shoe in a circle on the floor. The rubber was stubborn and didn't want to be worn away, and it was difficult to arrange the streaks so that there were no breaks in the circle. When I finished, I touched a finger to the edge of the circle, closed my eyes, and sent a little nudge of Will to close it. There was a sensation of my ears popping, as if the cabin pressure sharply rose, and I let out a sigh.

I half expected to break into tears, scream, rage, or do something violent, but I just sat there, leaning back against my heels with a pillow in my lap. I was exhausted, but my mind was racing in circles, trying to make sense of the past few hours.

Everything could be an elaborate reuse, but I didn't think so. There were too many people involved, it was too elaborate, and I would have seen the intent to deceive when I soul gazed with Spock. I could be in a mental institution with a bunch of crazy people that thought they were on a space ship. But that wasn't right either. It was improbable that so many people would be under the same delusion, and, again, I would have seen a mental instability in Spock when we soul gazed.

If I stopped fooling myself, I would have to admit that somehow, I woke up _in space_ and was, apparently, _in the future. _I was on board one giant piece of super-advanced technology, filled with lots of other super-advanced technology. Stars and Stones... I was a walking time bomb.

How did I get here? Why was I here? And, Hell's Bells, why was I always getting abducted? This had to be the third time! And the most annoying part was, the part that infuriated me, made me absolutely boiling, balls-kicking mad, was that it was never about me. I was never abducted because of my own merits. The first time I was abducted was to coerce Harry Dresden into losing a war, the second time I was abducted, it was to blackmail Molly into handing something from the Never Never over to the Fomor.

A little absurdly, I kind of wished that I would get abducted because someone wanted to force me to enchant some kind of doomsday device, or convert me to their wicked cause, or sell my death on the internet.

Instead, I am reduced to a _plot point_ in _someone else's _story.

Well, whoever those motherfuckers were, they didn't seem to be around.

No one was around.

So, having exhausted my options for the moment, I set the pillow on the floor, careful not to let it cross the border and break the circle, curled myself into a tight little ball, and fell asleep on the cold, hard, metal floor of the prison cell.

o.O

**AN: **This is just a note to say that I probably won't stick to a regular update schedule. I have a very busy life, with quite a few commitments and other enjoyments. I will update as I can.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Star Trek or the Dresden Files series.


End file.
